ments; but her husband often longed for a companion, but found none in the selfish, wayward woman who presided over his household.
“Poor little Fred!” he thought, as he sat there. “I am afraid the boy has had a hard life of it. Louise doesn’t mean to neglect him, but she has so much else on her hands. I wonder what it’s like, anyway.” And leaning back in his chair he closed his eyes for two or three minutes, and then opened them, with a shudder, on the brightly lighted room. “It must be awful, sure enough, to be in such darkness. Well, I hope the Carters can take him in. He will be contented there. Louise ought to consider him a little more.” But the thought never occurred to him that he, James Allen, could ever spend an evening at home, giving up his club or theatre, to entertain the boy, as much his son as the son of Louise.
The next evening, Mr. Carter came in with a letter, which he handed to his wife. She took it, read a few lines, and uttered an exclamation.
“What is it?” asked Bess, looking up from the game of dominoes she was playing with Rob.
